This Tickles My Funny Bone

My Aunt sent this (you can enlarge by double clicking) to me a few years ago. My Aunt is 1/2 Italian. Her grandparents on her father's side were from Palma Italy. they immigrated when my aunt's father was 6 weeks old. They lived in North Beach, San Francisco, California. So, there is no insult intended by the postcard.
I thought that this postcard was so funny that I kept it. I found it just today tucked away in a drawer. After I received it, it took my a couple of days to digest how really funny it was designed to be. If you look carefully, every one's eyes are a little "funny" from all the drink. The man in the middle seems to have weak knee syndrome from drinking to much and he is holding an axe. The man on the far right is holding a rifle that is broken open (I don't know the correct expression for when a person doesn't intend to shoot and the open the rifle so accidents do not occur), the woman on the far left is actually holding the camera cable but it looks like a cigarette, and the other woman doesn't look like she can move. Every time I look at this card, I laugh.
I have photos of my Grandmother and my Aunt's Mother pretending to be "layed out" in the parlor with Lilies on their chests. I have to remember that the camera was still a unique item for the average citizens to own. So like children, they played with it and experimented. I think that people took their amusements differently from "us". But they had as much fun as we do.
In this way, I can also enjoy their amusement and that makes me feel connected to the past.

Annie and I

I try not to look at this photo. Yet, when I do, I remember how sweet life always was when I knew that my sister was in this world. And that is why I do not look at this photo.

The photo on the right was taken by a neighbor in her backyard. We, her children and my sister and I, had created a garden in our backyard. I had read a book about a little girl and her flower garden but I thought wouldn't it be fun to have a vegetable garden. We were nine and eleven and knew nothing about the art of vegetable growing. But we all went ahead. Their father came over and dug a small plot for us. And we put in the seeds. I don't remember what we planted other than zucchini and pumpkins. And this pumpkin (see above) maybe the only product of that garden. Yet it was instructive and a lot of fun for all of us.

The photo on the left was taken years later. You can still see the rapport that we still had and the joy in each other's company. When I received this photo in the mail from my sister, I couldn't place why it looked so familiar. Then it clicked and I went through my mother's photos and found the little snapshot. I had both brought up to the same size and mounted them together as a small Christmas gift.

When she passed away, I asked for this rememborance back, yet I don't look at it very often, as I can't.

Class Photo

My sister and I would laugh and laugh when we looked at this class photo. We especially like the little boy in the bottom right row. He has a black eye. Then there is the girl with the book. She is standing right above the "fighter" at the end of the row.

Then if you look carefully, at the row third up from the bottom, at approximately the middle, you will see my mother carrying her doll. She loved dolls. When she married my father, she wanted to bring all of her dolls with her. But fortunately for my father, her mother discouraged her from that.

I was not especially a doll person and the last doll I received was when I was eleven. It was at Christmastime. My mother and my sister and I went to Berkeley to this wonderful toy store. Now remember, I was eleven going on twelve. I had an older sister, which makes younger siblings aspire to be older. I remember being told to wait in the car, while they went into the store. I knew in my bones that they were going to pick out a doll for me.

By this time I was using the treadle sewing machine to make things for myself and fix my clothes up to my standard. I suppose that if it had been now, I would have tried punk and it was a few years before the hippie look, but I dressed myself.

There I am, sitting in the car, wondering if I can pull off the surprised look when I opened up the box. It was going to be a stretch but I felt I could do it. Both my mother and sister loved dolls. I would have loved an "artist set" full of watercolors, pastels, charcoal and paper. Or best of all, a kitten!

Well, Christmas morning came. I think I pulled it off but thankfully I never received another doll. To me, it was ugly. However, I never got another doll.

But then I am not a doll person.

A View From a Window

I have been trying to puzzle why a view from a window is so captivating, so evocative. Could it be the freedom of the outdoors, or the offer of a better future, maybe spring day? I don't have an answer but every time I see a photo like this, I always pause and reflect. The tantalizing promise of the magic ring actually being possessed is what resonates with me. You remember Rapunzel, who was captive in her tower? There she is, holed up, unable to get out. She looks out the window and there is freedom, fresh air and if she looks down, she can imagine running though the forest and lying under a tree. To me, a view from a window, is ultimate freedom.

This is not my house and at the time, it was no one's house. Just on the market. The people that I accompanied to the house, did buy it eventually. I took the photo. They however, did not need photos because the dream had already captured them.